Fare Thee Well
by jillyfae
Summary: A young Isobel Cousland and her friend Nathaniel Howe say good-bye, well before the events of the game. (Isobel belongs to nightquill, everything else is BioWare's. I just like to play around with their stuff.)


"Aw, is baby-'Bel sulking?"

Isobel tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear and refused to answer. She was not a baby. She was 16.

Well, almost 16.

Well, over 15 anyways.

Fergus was such a tit. See how he liked it if she started calling him Fergie. Or Gussie.

"You know, if you keep hiding up here in the battlements, you'll never hear the bell for dinner, and then you won't even get to say good-bye."

She resisted the desire to stick her tongue out at him,not a baby, and pushed herself off the stone ledge that was her favorite perch, with the best view of the road into town she could manage. (The East Tower was higher, but it didn't have any good window ledges.)

"Not sulking. Nor hiding." She punched Fergus in the shoulder, just to emphasize her point.

"Uh-huh. That why you almost tripped on that bottom lip just now?"

Isobel rolled her eyes, then almost punched him again in surprise wh en he draped an arm over her shoulders. She glared sideways at him, waiting for the punchline, (possibly literally, since she had started hitting first), but he managed a smile for her instead. "You had to know this was coming, 'Bel."

"No I didn't," she muttered. "Fosterage is usually with allies. In the same damn country." _Maker, I miss him already and he hasn't even left yet._

Fergus, for once, didn't say anything about her lack of forethought, and only gave a slight squeeze before he stepped back. "See you at dinner, 'Bel."

She sighed as the sound of his boots on stone stairs echoed further and further away, waiting until all was silent, then waiting just a little more, listening to the wind until she no longer felt the urge to pout or sigh and could plaster something resembling a smile back on her face. Only then did she follow, heading towards her room to find something more suitable for the dining hall than her leathers.

* * *

Despite her brother's warning, she was almost late. She'd spent most of the time she should've been changing and brushing out her hair trying to find a box for a coiled bowstring and some arrowheads from the blacksmith to give him as a going away present.

What if his fosterage was with someone like his father, who didn't appreciate his skills? He'd need some decent supplies.

Which ended up in a hatbox, because she ran out of time, but it was a nice plain hatbox, so she doubted he'd mind. Too much.

_Arl Howe is such an ass._

Not that he'd ever been anything but polite to her, when they were visiting. And her father always spoke well of him. Nate even always spoke well of him, but she could tell. He was an ass. Never quite nice to his own heir, never encouraging, never writing him when he came to Highever, just sending a courier when it was time to come home again.

When it was time to leave Ferelden completely.

_He'll be back. It's just a few years._

Important years, though. Years when she'd be presented at Court, and he wouldn't. Years when she'd have to dance, in public, with people she hardly knew. And he wouldn't be there to step on her toes.

Or teach her not to step on his. He was probably a splendid dancer. He was always so quick on his feet when they were sparring.

She wanted him to stick around long enough she could finally pull off a better shot than him. Just once. Just to show him she was learning.

And instead she was going to get one formal dinner and awkward conversation before he had to ride off with the courier. Not even a day's warning before he was called back.

_Yep. Arl Howe's an ass._

Maybe she could salvage something though. There had to be a way ...

* * *

"This is a very bad idea, Belle." Nate's voice was barely louder than a whisper. Their footsteps were louder, the tap of hard leather soles on stone.

"Well, it's the last chance we'll have for bad ideas now, isn't it?" She didn't even turn around, heading for the ladder on the far wall.

No one was supposed to go up on the roof of the East Tower. It didn't have battlements, or walls, or railings, just a wide almost flat stretch of slate. Slippery stuff, slate.

But it had the Best View. Even better than her usual perch on the battlements.

They needed something to remember their last night.

Hopefully not involving broken legs from slipping off the roof.

This really was a very bad idea.

But they were here now, and she wasn't about to give up. She'd reached the top of the ladder, after all. All she needed to do was undo one last latch. She stared at the latch for a bit too long, long enough to hear the rub of cloth and the shifting of Nate's shoes against the ladder beneath her.

She had to get the hatbox at least, right?

She yanked on the bolt and shoved the trapdoor up with her shoulder.

She'd almost fallen off the ladder when she'd come by earlier to drop off his present.

_If I slipped this time, would he catch me?_

She hoped she wasn't blushing, wondering about the width of his chest, the strength in his arms.

However romantic the image, in real life when someone slipped down a ladder, you usually both ended up in a heap on the ground.

She'd done that to Fergus in the stables just last week, after all. At least they'd had a nice pile of hay to break their fall.

"Are we going or not?" Nate's rough whisper came up from the ladder beneath her. "Your parents'll be done with their port soon enough, you know."

Isobel scrambled up through the trapdoor, making sure she took several steps so she'd be out of Nate's way when it was his turn, taking the piece of slate she'd used to weigh it down off the top of the box as she waited.

Not that she had to wait; he practically flew up through the opening, landing on his feet beside her.

She tilted her head at him, and he smiled, and then they were standing at the far side of the roof, their toes only a s tep away from the edge, her head tilted back as she looked up and up and up some more, stars and clouds filling the air above them.

His fingers were cold, the calluses on them rubbing against her skin as he took her hand.

She wasn't sure who moved in closer first, but she felt their elbows bump, and she glanced over at his face. He lifted one dark eyebrow, and smiled again, and she turned in towards him, her free hand finding its way to his shoulder, even as she felt his fingers sliding along her belt and settling on her hip.

They were dancing, then, slow enough neither would slide too far, no music except the wind, moonlight disappearing in his dark hair, silvering the folds of cloth over his shoulders.

They danced long enough his fingers warmed in hers, even as their air grew chill enough she could sometimes see his breath, a puff through the air, dissipating just before it touched her cheek. She was warm though, heat from the touch of his palm, the dark of his eyes, the smile that never left his mouth.

"Anna Isobel Cousland!"

Nate's arms tightened around her with a jerk, the only thing that stopped her from losing her balance and sliding across the roof when she jumped in surprise. Her father's low voice carried remarkably well through the clear night air, even when he wasn't _quite_ shouting at her from the courtyard.

"Get off that roof before your mother sees you and has a heart attack."

Nate's fingers brushed gently across her cheek, and then his smile flashed into a grin, and she swallowed an uneven giggle, and they were scrambling back across the roof to the trapdoor before her father could say anything else.

Or say the same things again, just at greater volume.

Nate slid down the ladder first, catching the hatbox when she tossed it down before following him. He caught her too, his fingers strong against her sides as her feet settled softly on the floo r.

The heat was back, a flush across her cheeks and a knot in her stomach, and he was close enough she could feel his breath against her lips after she turned around.

And then the sound of her father's heavy footsteps was louder than the thud of her heart in her chest, and the creak of the hinges from the door interrupted her breathing, and Nate was already a step away, picking the hatbox up off the ground.

"Ser," Nate bowed his head politely.

Bryce's lips almost twitched as he nodded back. "Your mount's waiting, bags packed, groom's ready. Time to go, Nathaniel."

"Thank you, ser." Nate glanced over to her, one last almost smile, his fingers tightening around the box, and then he was gone, his steps almost silent on the hard stone floor.

Her father's hand dropped to her shoulder when she would've followed, holding her in place. "You might want to say your good-bye's somewhere a bit less perilous in the future, pup."

_We never did quite get to saying good-bye this time._

"Yes, father." She glanced up at his face, recognizing the sympathy in his eyes as his smile twitched to life again.

"Alright, go see him off. I won't tell your mother."

"Thank you," she flashed him a smile, and a quick peck on the cheek, and went running to the courtyard to catch Nate before he left.

It didn't have to be too sad. _Farewell_ wasn't forever, after all.

Someday he'd come home again.


End file.
